


Seeds

by RaiMedvedsky



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse, Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fallen Angels, Hate Sex, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Hellenistic Religion & Lore), Medium Burn, Past Lives, Post-Canon, Witches, but kinda, ish, not really - Freeform, the rating is for later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2019-10-24 12:18:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17704148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaiMedvedsky/pseuds/RaiMedvedsky
Summary: Michael is back. The apocalypse is nigh. Mallory strikes a deal.





	1. A spell is cast and a deal is struck

**Author's Note:**

> After years of loving loving loving any opportunity to read a good Hades/Persephone yarn, I finally succumbed to the urge to write one. I have a long history of writing fanfic but only recently got back in the game, and I'm hoping to keep this one concise so I don't drive my readers crazy. Comments make me happy and will make me write more of the thing! 
> 
> Chapter one is the most full-of-setup any of these chapters will be; we'll get these crazy kids smooching soon enough.

Mallory may have saved the world, but she was only a child at the time. A teenager who’d just emerged from time spent in stasis; a stranger’s life she shed like a snake’s skin between one gasp of air and the next. She was pure of heart and sound of mind and full of righteous convictions akin to god’s own fury from heaven, but she knew not what she did—not really. 

  
In crushing the antichrist’s skull into the pavement ( _again and again and again with a sick crack and pop and squelch she would hear in nightmares for years to come_ ) she’d truly believed she was saving everyone and everything. Later, a bit older and a bit more settled back into herself, she’d start to have her doubts. 

 

Michael Langdon had been the villain of her story, but he’d still been a mortal man. Would the devil see his death as any sort of setback? 

 

Mallory tried to revel in her classes, her friends, her beloved mentors, the quiet and sweet secret knowledge of her eventual ascent to Supreme. But the doubt grew along with her. And then, one day, as subtle as the moment between waking and sleep, the doubt was gone. One day she _knew_. 

 

She had failed, and the Apocalypse was nigh. 

 

She knew what she was supposed to do—what a smart girl and a good future Supreme would do—and she almost managed to do it. She almost convinced herself to rally the troops and plot and plan to keep the whole mess from spilling out upon the earth all over again. But instead she found herself kneeling alone on the floor of her bedroom as the witching hour ticked by, smearing a freshly cut palm over the hardwood and murmuring a spell she suspected she’d regret. She had already used up a lifetime’s worth of willingness to wait and watch and pray that carefully crafted plans would unfold with flawless execution. She wasn’t going to hide from danger until the last moment and hope she could save the day with a single heartbeat to spare. No, Mallory was going to get answers. She was going to _demand_ them.

 

She was going to cut a deal with the devil himself, and she was going straight to hell to do it. 

 

But the regret came sooner than she’d expected. Almost before she’d registered her successful transmutation—before the cold and unnamable sense of _nothingness_ of her new location had time to take hold of her—she looked up and met the eyes of the man she’d murdered. 

 

“Michael?” It came out before she could stop herself. “I thought you were…” 

 

_What **had** she thought he was, anyway? Just another dead human? A mere minor player in hell? Not going to fucking be here?_

 

But then she held her tongue. What was she supposed to say to the man she’d once gone back in time to run over with an SUV? 

 

“You were expecting my father,” he said with an imperious little smirk. Mallory wondered if it was her powers telling her that his condescension hid a quiet fury, or if perhaps it was obvious in the more usual sense. In any case, she could tell he was angry. Was he mad at her for what she’d done to him in the world of the living? Embarrassed to face someone who knew he’d failed in his mission? Perhaps he was just annoyed that she was clearly surprised to find him like this, dressed in black finery like the prince of hell and seated on a goddamn _throne_. 

 

“Well… yes,” Mallory murmured. “I mean, there isn’t exactly a direct extension you can dial to speak to Satan himself, but I was pretty sure the spell I used would get me there if I had the right intention in mind.”

 

There was something happening to her. Whatever pit of hell she’d popped herself into had a particular sort of magic and power hanging off of it, and she could feel it seeping into her pores and awakening… something. The sensation reminded her of the moment Cordelia had resurrected her and removed her identity spell, but stretched out into a thousand tiny pinpricks of revelation. But whatever the something happening was, it took a backseat to Michael and his crown of blood-red rubies. 

 

“And what were your intentions, sweet little supreme?” 

 

Michael leaned forward, closing some of the gap between them. They were a foot apart now, maybe. And most of it was height—she’d never stopped kneeling. She tried to rise and found she could not. It wasn’t as if hands forced her back down, but as if her body refused to listen to her mind. _I’m in his house now_ , she thought. _His rules._ She made her gaze as steely as she could muster, even as her heart raced. 

 

“I’m here to negotiate peace terms,” she said. “I wanted to speak to whatever entity was driving the end of the world and ask them why.”

 

A perfect eyebrow shot up in genuine surprise, quickly masked by a sarcastic flourish. “Oh, of _course_ ,” he cooed. “Yes, the goodhearted witch has come to save the writhing masses above by _talking it out_ with the devil.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “What a splendid plan. I'm sure father would have _loved_ to hear your thoughts on the matter. If only you’d actually landed in the throne room of the embodiment of pure evil and darkness and not the half-human son you _crushed with a car_ , that  _definitely_ would have worked.” 

 

She knew the ridicule was fair enough, but she still fumed. Her hands clenched into fists, though she suspected she wouldn’t be able to lift them if she decided to knock one into his perfect face. 

 

“You can mock me all you like, _Michael_ , but I’m here with an honest question that I think we—witches, humankind, mortals, whatever—are owed an answer to,” her chest was heaving, eyes blazing, but she couldn’t stop to collect her calm. She didn’t know how much time she had before he tired of her and booted her back to her room. “I want to know why the devil wants the world to end.”

 

He looked almost disappointed. Yes, he would tire of her quickly. He thought her so silly and sweet. She pressed on. 

 

“I think you might misunderstand me,” she said. “I want to know why the devil wants the world to end when _the earth is his playground_ and there is _so much more he can do to torment us_.” 

  
And oh, the glint in his eye. The massive fireplace that had been smoldering behind him roared up, giving him a backdrop of amber flames.

 

“I see,” he murmured, leaning back again to sprawl in his onyx throne. He studied her thoughtfully for a moment, his face flickering in the light of the fire. The inferno cast shadows that made Mallory suddenly aware of the dark, damp, massive room around them, but she kept her eyes on the man before her. “Go on.”

 

“I’d like to stand,” she said. 

 

“And I like you on your knees, darling,” he quipped. Mallory rolled her eyes. 

 

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll keep this brief, then. If my spell brought me here, you must be in charge of… whatever is about to happen to us. Right?”

 

His smile was slow and sweet as sin. 

 

“Father was disappointed in my failure, of course, but he viewed it as a sort of trial run—a fact-finding mission, if you will,” he said. “I’d already tracked down the parents of my adorable little backup planwhen we first met. He’s a toddler now. Just killed a babysitter with his bare hands, if I’m not mistaken.” He reached out to push some of Mallory’s golden hair behind her ear, making her furrow her brow in displeasure, but his hand quickly retreated. “I’m to guide him from below, and use what I learned on Earth to ensure our success. You barely won last time, and now none of you stand a chance.”

 

Mallory nodded, trying to calibrate her plan based on what little she actually knew of the man before her. He’d been her nemesis, but how many words had they ever spoken to one another? War could breed such strange sorts of intimacies. 

 

“Here’s what I think,” she said, locking eyes with him. “Stop me if I get something wrong. I think the end of the world—the last time, the one that didn’t take—was something the devil had to do. Something hardwired since the beginning of time. Some sort of… cosmic evolutionary eventuality. Or a mandate from god, I suppose, I don’t pretend to know how much of all of _that_ is actually real.”

 

Michael gave her a strange look and Mallory was reminded, yet again, of the feeling of the identity spell and the waking that came after. _You know_ , she thought. But now wasn’t the time for that. 

 

“But if…” she narrowed her eyes in thought. “If _you’re_ in charge now, then I think that means he’s been freed from the obligation of it. The wheels aren’t turning because the fabric of existence is pushing them forward, he just wants to follow through on what he failed to do. It was something he _had_ to do, now it’s something he _desires_.”

 

She cocked her head slightly, still studying his eyes. “Or maybe it’s something _you_ desire. You want to prove to him that you can fix it. Maybe he didn't even tell you that you had to.”

 

Michael’s face was still calm and cold, but she could sense he was getting agitated. He didn’t correct her. 

  
“So,” she exhaled, wanting to move on from insulting him as quickly as possible. “Here’s what else I think: none of it makes any sense. We should want the same things, you and I.” Mallory held up her hand to stop him from interrupting her as he scoffed. 

 

“Michael,” she said firmly. “Listen to me.”

 

_Did he just lick his lips?_

 

At least she had his attention again. She felt like his eyes were pinning her to the floor. 

 

“I want life on Earth to continue because, well, it’s my home. They’re my people. I want us to go on,” she took a breath to steady herself before letting the rest tumble out. “You obviously don’t give a shit about any of that. But you still should want life on Earth to continue, because humans are excellent at torturing themselves. I don’t understand why having us all in hell and knowing there will never be more of us is better than watching us spend eternity creating our own misery.”

 

He looked at her for a long beat before speaking. “A kingdom needs subjects, Mallory.”

 

“And your father will have them,” she murmured. “Death will always make sure of that.”

 

He hummed, leaning on chin on his hand. 

 

“Are you really encouraging me to spend the rest of time watching your people squirm?”

 

“You’re going to do that either way.”

 

He actually laughed, a short burst of a chuckle that seemed to surprise him. 

 

“Alright,” he stood up, forcing Mallory to crane her neck to look at his face. “Let’s say I agree with you. My father won’t stand for me changing my mind because some witch made a sound logical argument. What will you offer me to sweeten the deal?”

 

Here it was: the moment she felt like an idiot for doing this herself. How had she failed to think this part through? She bit her lip. 

 

“An innocent soul every year,” she offered with more confidence than she felt. Michael rolled his eyes so hard she wondered if it had hurt. 

 

“I’m not Papa Legba, sweetheart,” he said. “I have as many souls as I want. _He_ is the gatekeeper to _my_ domain.”

  
Mallory was intrigued, but decided it wasn’t the time to ask for a lesson on the inner workings of hell’s bureaucratic hierarchy. 

 

“I’ll…” she’d meant to quickly offer something, anything, whatever she had to say to convince him she had _any idea what to give him_ , because she wasn’t a fool, she _knew_ how this sort of negotiation worked, and if she had no idea what to give it meant the ball was entirely in his court. But while she’d hoped the mere act of speaking would conjure the words she searched for into existence, she was silent long enough for him to settle into a deep and unholy smirk. 

 

“I know what would be fair,” he said. “And would play _so well_ into your precious little martyr complex.”

 

She knew what he was about to suggest, but her stomach still dropped when he said it.

 

“I’ll let humanity carry on if you give up your life on Earth to serve me. Here. Forever.”

 

“Why… why would you even _want_ that?” Mallory squinted up at him, trying not to tremble with a dozen different emotions. “You don’t need my power, you have legions of demons to command.”

 

He crouched down onto the floor to meet her eyes. “You’re the girl who defeated me, Mallory,” he murmured. “That’s a prize any man would want.”

 

She swallowed. “Okay. But not forever, then. A… a decade.”

 

“We both know that as soon as you left I’d just set everything in motion again, so let’s not play those games with one another,” he said. He wasn’t looking into her eyes anymore, but flitting his gaze around her face. She realized with a burst of fury that he was… he was _inspecting_ her, like a piece of art he might buy. 

 

“You look most like your mother when you get angry like that,” he said with a kind of amusement much too full of fondness. She didn’t know what he meant, exactly—he wasn’t talking about her _actual_ mother, that was certain—but something about it rang so true that she didn’t spiral into confusion. She sensed that she would understand it soon enough. 

 

“Okay, I…” she shook her head, thinking back to his exact words. “Okay. But I won’t agree to _serve_ you. I agree to _be here_. What I do with myself is still my business.”

 

Michael cocked his head and smirked again. “Feels like I could demand a lot more than that and you’d still say yes.” He reached out and grabbed her chin, not quite hard enough to hurt. “But fine. Consider the contract rewritten. You will _stay with me_ forever. And,” his fingers tightened a bit, making her gasp in spite of herself. “You will come when I call you. I won’t have you slipping off into the most secret corners of hell you can find to avoid talking to me.”

 

“Fine,” Mallory shuddered as his thumb brushed up the column of her neck, and she tried to pull away. “I don’t know why you want to _talk_ to me, but fine.”

 

“It’s obviously so I can woo you and make you my queen,” he said with a smirk, finally releasing her. Mallory was pretty sure he was mocking her, and in any case knew he would _definitely_ mock her if she replied as if he was being serious. And really, it was a train of thought she couldn't afford to torture herself with in that moment. Instead she just sighed, and he nodded. 

 

“A deal well struck,” he murmured. Mallory put out her hand to shake, but he reached out to cup her face and pulled her into a kiss. One-sided and brief though it was, it left Mallory’s lips burning as if she’d leaned too close to a flame. He drank up her dazed expression with a smirk. “We’re going to have a lot of fun, angel.”


	2. Give The Devil His Due

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mallory's willpower is tested and old truths are not quite revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kind comments so far! Please keep them coming. I'm headed out of town for a good chunk of this month, but I should have 1-2 more updates before Friday, and once I'm home I'll try to stick to a 1-a-week schedule until we're wrapped up. <3

The reception hall was part of a winding network of rooms seemingly carved from volcanic rock, as if hell were actually located in the depths of the earth. Mallory could feel this wasn’t so—felt in her bones that she was on some other plane of existence—but the aesthetic was so consistent as to seem natural. She found it curious, but there were so, so many things about Michael Langdon’s hell that she found curious. 

 

The rough hewn walls of bubbling black and red stone were contrasted by sumptuous furnishings like something out of a storybook, for starters. The room Michael led her to just after their strange kiss featured an ornate wooden bed piled high with furs, a fireplace nearly as ostentatious as the one in his great hall, and a bathing pool bubbling like a hot spring. He left her without a word to explore; there was a closet full of ethereal gowns and circlets of gold like the ones she’d always worn in her hair, a sitting area full of ancient books for her perusal, and even a balcony—the strange castle sat in the center of a great cavern, creating a sort of outside even though the whole expanse was walled in. Bowls of deep red and purple fruits—pomegranates, globe grapes, dark pears and plums—sat enticingly on every table. 

 

Mallory wasn’t sure if it was some ancient myth needling at the back of her brain or a protective instinct stemming from her powers, but she was pretty sure she shouldn’t eat food from the realm of the dead. And when she wasn’t hungry after a day of abstaining, well, why not hold off for a week? As a week stretched into two without any weakness or pain, she praised herself for her perseverance: she clearly didn’t need food to survive down in the dank depths of hell. Maybe she was dead already, she mused. How would she really know?

 

But the lack of corporeal necessity didn’t stop Michael from enjoying evening feasts for the mere gluttony of it (which, given his parentage and their location, was not altogether surprising) and Mallory found herself drawn there night after night. He’d made her swear on the lives of everyone in existence to come when called, yes, but he didn’t seem particularly keen to  _ call on her _ . So by the third night, bored out of her mind and facing down an eternity of isolation, she was dressing for dinner and sitting at his right hand. Still he didn’t speak, didn’t ask or demand a thing of her. On nights she stayed in her room, he went on without her. 

 

Mallory found this maddening, and found the fact that she felt this way even worse.

 

“You really should eat something,” he offered lightly between sips of wine one night, as if it hadn’t been a full month of silence since her arrival. “It will help with the dreams.” 

 

She had to blink a few times to boot her brain back up. “I’m sorry, what?” 

 

Michael gave her a knowing smirk from behind his goblet.

 

“Haven’t you been having strange dreams?”

 

She had, as a matter of fact: she kept waking with the vague outlines of truly epic tales on the tip of her tongue. It felt the way she’d heard some particularly profound hallucinogenic trips described; she awoke with the sense that the meaning of everything had been hers just a few moments before, but any attempt to remember made the fragments of knowing dissolve like sugar in her mouth. She parted her lips and wetted them, wondering how much he knew. 

 

“You have to ask, sweet Mallory,” he cooed. “Ask me.”

 

She swallowed hard.

 

“How… how do you  _ know _ I’m having strange dreams?”

 

He nodded sagely. “A good question to begin with, I’d say. You’re impressively sharp for someone who’s done nothing but sing songs to keep herself company for the last 35 days. Your voice is  _ lovely _ , by the way.”

 

Her cheeks burned and she wondered if she’d had even a moment of true privacy during her period of captivity. Here she’d thought he was indifferent to her presence, and all the while he’d been  _ spying _ . She hated herself for being so easily toyed with. 

 

“I know you’re having strange dreams because of what you are and where you are,” he said, his voice almost sing-song in its playful, mocking lilt. He chuckled as her scowl deepened. “You ask wonderful questions, little witch, but that doesn’t mean you’ll get the answers you deserve.”

 

She huffed a little, eyeing the wine.

 

“Food will help?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Why?”

 

He lost his smirk, clearly doing his best to formulate an accurate response.  _ I suppose he’s barely sure of the truth of it himself _ , Mallory mused.  _ It’s no fun spinning riddles if you’re not sure of the answer _ .

 

“Imagine that the power of this place is in the air—it’s caressing your skin, circulating in and out of your lungs, but that’s out of your control,” he murmured. “Things grown here have that power in every single cell. Ingesting them is like… inviting the power in. Giving it quarter in your body for as long as it takes you to digest it. Consenting for it to find its way into the very fabric of you.”

 

Mallory looked down at the pomegranate split open on Michael’s plate, and he lifted a palm full of seeds to her in offering.  _ He certainly has a penchant for drama. _

 

“And what else will the food do to me?” She asked. She appreciated that he seemed pleased with her for it. She’d rather he want her as a worthy opponent than a helpless captive. 

 

“Bind you to this place,” he murmured. He reached down for a pomegranate seed and popped it into his mouth. “The same way I am bound to it. The bindings would be looser than those you agreed to in our bargain, so it’s really all moot unless you kill me or convince me to release you.” 

 

He smirked at her rising heartbeat. “But that won’t happen, angel.” 

 

Those dreams hovered before her as she reached for the fruit, but she pulled her hand away at the last moment.

 

“I’m not ready,” she blurted out, immediately wondering why she’d said something so ridiculous. When would she ever be  _ ready  _ to admit she was stuck with him for good? But he just nodded as if she’d never been more sensible, and she felt once again that strange sort of intimacy between them, as if he had fond memories of her to look back on and cherished her for it. 

 

“I’ll give you a hint if you’d like,” he murmured, reaching out to take her hand and rubbing gentle circles in her palm with his thumb. “About your dreams. It will cost you, but I’m more willing to negotiate than this pomegranate is.” 

 

Mallory let out a little gasp of a chuckle at the unexpected joke (and perhaps at the unexpected tingling of his skin against hers, too) and chewed at her bottom lip. His hair and skin glowed so pale in the firelight, and he was as beautiful as a poisonous blossom. She couldn’t ever  _ really  _ trust him, that was for certain. But his fingers had started to trail farther up her arm, and without warning he tightened his grip and tugged her toward him. 

 

“Come spend the night in my room,” he offered as if it wasn’t a terrifying request, and one without precedent. They’d barely  _ spoken _ . She still suspected his previous hint at wooing and bedding her was just meant to make her squirm. He’s probably just make her sleep on the floor, she thought,  _ or pluck dried lentils from the ashes of his fireplace _ . 

 

“That’s not happening, Michael,” Mallory scoffed, though her cheeks warmed and reddened. “Something else.”

 

“A kiss, then,” his hand slipped back down to her wrist and brought her palm to rest against his cheek. His lips brushed her thumb and her eyes widened in surprise and… something she didn’t want to think about too much. “Come here and kiss me, and I’ll give you some of the answers you seek.”

 

Mallory’s heart was racing, but she cleared her throat and tried to keep a stony facade. It wouldn’t kill her to call his bluff. 

  
“Deal.”

  
She pushed back her chair, the sound echoing through the nearly-empty banquet hall, and put her silk-slippered feet on the cold floor. That was one thing about Michael’s hell: everything smacked of fire and brimstone, but there wasn’t a corner of the whole place that wasn’t cold. Even sitting by a roaring fire, the heat of the flames didn’t seem to touch the bone-deep chill. 

 

Michael’s chair was just a few paces from her own, so in seconds she was standing just beside him. He was nearly a foot taller than her standing; barely below her now that he sat and she stood. His gaze was inscrutable and unwavering, and she wondered if he could hear her heart pounding. She put a hand on his shoulder to brace herself, the pale gossamer sleeve of her drop waisted gown trailing down over the black brocade of his jacket. Quickly, before she lost her nerve, she bent to press a solid but short kiss to his lips. 

 

He was laughing before she’d even finished pulling away.

 

“ _ Mallory _ ,” he said as if scolding a naughty child. “Don’t insult me.”

 

His hands were on her waist a moment later, tugging her over the arms of his chair to sit across his lap. It would almost be better if he’d made her straddle him, she thought: perched to the side as she was, she had to rely on his hand at her back and her own white-knuckled grip on his lapels to keep herself from falling. 

 

“The longer you kiss me, the longer I’ll talk,” he said with a smirk. “The moment you leave my arms, this little chat is over. And I won’t offer to talk to you about your dreams again. You’ll have to drink my wine sooner or later, sweetheart.”

 

Mallory’s face was red with surprise and adrenaline, and her heart was racing. But the look she gave him could have killed a lesser man. He only looked more pleased.

 

“Come here and give the devil his due.”

 

Mallory’s certainty that Michael was only flirting to humiliate her evaporated as soon as their lips met and parted. She’d never been kissed so  _ hungrily _ . She gripped his jacket harder as his hands came up to tangle in her hair, angling her mouth against his so he could plunder her the way he pleased. He spoke whenever they broke for breath.

 

“You’re remembering how it all started,” he said, his voice a low sort of groan she’d never heard from him before. Mallory felt like her body wasn’t her own as she shifted in his lap, settling down with her thighs braced against his. She hadn’t let herself drink his wine, but she was drunk all the same. The fever of his lips on hers made the few kisses she’d shared in her sheltered former life seem like they didn’t deserve to go by the same name, and she felt  _ warm _ for the first time in weeks. 

 

“You’re going to be so powerful once you let it all back in,” he said, his voice turning into a hiss as she tugged at his hair to bring his lips back to hers. He acquiesced for a moment before trailing his mouth down her neck, nipping at the delicate skin there.

 

“This is how it should have been,” he groaned as she whined softly. “We’re meant for each other. We’re the same.”

 

Just as she’d felt possessed by a desire that felt new and alien to her, Mallory suddenly found herself full of another woman’s rage. She reared back to glare at him, panting through swollen lips, and slapped him hard across the face.

 

“We are  _ nothing  _ alike,” she spat, trembling as if she would burst. “You  _ left. _ ” Electricity crackled between her fingertips, and she dug her nails into his thighs to discharge it. 

 

Was it just her imagination, or did that alabaster skin somehow turn a shade lighter as he jolted with the shock? Something in her glowed in satisfaction at the sight of him caught off guard. She was so  _ angry _ at him, so full of loathing, and she didn’t even know  _ why _ . The words she’d so frightened him with barely even registered to her. It was only once she began replaying them in her head that the rage slipped away as quickly and quietly as it had arrived, replaced with confusion and something not unlike fear. 

 

“I…” Mallory looked at Michael, taking in the intimacy of their embrace. She scrambled out of his lap and he let her, holding up his hands as if she was a frightened animal he hoped to appease. Her eyes darted to his wine goblet on the table, and she thought of downing it in one go just to end her sense of displacement and amnesia. 

 

“Don’t be afraid, Mallory,” he said softly. He picked up the golden chalice and held it to her like a priest offering communion. His eyes were earnest and caring at first glance, but there was a glint of excitement that made her stomach go sour. 

  
She turned and ran, hearing the goblet clang against the wall just as she turned the corner. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please buckle up for my weird theology adventure.


	3. A Fever Is Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If I had you—really had you—I wonder, would you keep that glow of yours?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm out of town for 10 days, so this is probably it until I'm back! Be good. And thanks for reading.

Life in the underworld was basically like an extraordinarily boring vacation, albeit one where the crown prince of hades occasionally watched you sleep. Mallory pretended she didn’t notice; Michael pretended to be fooled by her closed eyes and rhythmic breathing. She told herself it was because confronting him would mean having to speak to him, and she’d done such a wonderful job of avoiding that since… whatever had happened that night at dinner. 

 

She read books from scholars the world had long forgotten and ones not yet born, she floated in her bathing pool, she explored the outer edges of the strange cavern his castle sat in. The dreams hadn’t stopped, but those flashes of not-quite-memory were far less unsettling than the mornings she awoke quite sure Michael had just kissed her. 

 

But during the day, their interactions were tense and few and far between. They would both stiffen whenever they found themselves in the same room—Mallory looking as if she was fighting the instinct to run away and Michael as if he was fighting the instinct to devour her. 

 

Mallory barely had words to describe what seemed to be happening between them. She’d had infatuations before, but this was… this was more than magnetic. It was molecular. It was cosmic. She felt as if every moment they spent together was a fateful tick on some faraway clock, and she trembled at the thought that they might soon strike midnight. 

 

And then, one night, she ran out of time. Mallory opened her eyes to see Michael hovering above her. She was surprised that he looked chastened to have been caught leaning over the side of her bed; she hadn’t thought anything could shame him, let alone watching her sleep with his hands clasped firmly behind his back. But he didn’t pull away, and the moment hung heavy in the air between them, and in the end it was Mallory who dragged him down by the dark fabric of his shirt. Whether it was loneliness or destiny or merely a run-of-the-mill attraction she didn’t want to accept ownership of, she felt unable to stop herself from pressing her lips to his. 

 

None of the restraint Michael had shown in watching her persisted after she touched him. His arms wrapped firmly around her, his knee slipping onto her bed to brace him as he growled into her mouth like a starving beast. He sounded  _ angry _ , Mallory thought as she nipped at his lip and made him grunt. 

 

“You’re so  _ good _ , Mallory, so  _ golden _ . Like pure sunlight, like a daffodil blossom, like a jar of honey,” he hissed into her ear between bruising kisses. “It’s  _ fucking infuriating _ .”

 

He dipped his head lower, nipping at the side of her breast through the silken fabric of her nightgown. He left dark patches where he tongued the red fabric and, Mallory was certain, dark bruises on her skin where he bit down. 

 

“If I had you—really had you—I wonder, would you keep that glow of yours?” He raised himself up on his knees and tugged her hair until she was forced to look at him, her neck strained. “Or would making you mine be enough to extinguish it?” 

 

Mallory felt the fingers of his other hand creeping up her leg and whimpered. 

 

“Maybe I shouldn’t care,” he whispered, eyes locked on hers and shining in the black of the room. “Maybe you’d be even more perfect if you were broken.” 

 

“You couldn’t break me if you tried,” Mallory gasped, but the retort sounded weak even to her own ears. Michael smirked down at her and let out a little sigh, his body relaxing as if some kind of fever had spiked and passed. His grip on her hair loosened, so when he next pulled her into a kiss he was more guiding her than dragging her. 

 

His wandering hands retreated, content to brace himself over her as his kisses went from furious to languid. Soon Mallory was half asleep once again, lulled by the warmth of his body and breath and the gentle caresses of his lips. He whispered things she couldn’t quite make out in her ear as he eased her onto her side, settling in behind her to lock her in a tight embrace. She drifted back to sleep that way, with his body curled around hers. She woke up alone, and cold, and wondering if it had been a dream. But her pillow did seem to smell like him. 

 

And that night, he demanded her presence for the first time. 

 


	4. Within Reach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not dead!

Mallory was in the bath when she felt it for the first time; a sort of tugging sensation in the back of her skull and the whisper of a command in her left ear. _Come to me_ it said, not quite in Michael’s voice. But she knew it was him. _Mallory_ , the voice hissed when she kept floating in the warm pool, _come to dinner. Now._

 

She wasn’t sure if this demonic communication system worked both ways, but she did her best to send clear _fuck off, Michael, I’m in the bath and I don’t even eat_ vibes in his direction. But while the murmur and the pull briefly abated, she knew it wasn’t because he’d given up. She felt his hands firmly plant down on her shoulders a moment later and started, curling up with her arms wrapped around her legs to cover herself. Michael scoffed and squeezed her shoulders even tighter, leaning forward so his breath tickled her ear and his blonde curls slipped down her collarbone.

 

“What was the one rule you agreed to, pet?” He nipped at her earlobe so quickly she almost thought she’d imagined it.

 

“I’m fairly certain it wasn’t access to my bath,” she quipped even as the pressure of his hands—somehow forceful even as he traced sweet circles on her shoulder blades with his thumbs—made her turn red in the cheeks.

 

“Perhaps not, but you did swear on the soul of ever human alive that you would come when I call for you.”

 

He gave a squeeze that felt final, but his hands only moved to slip through her hair, twisting it around his fingers and scratching pleasantly at her scalp.

 

“I’ll forgo a retaliatory cataclysm just this once,” he said, “under the generous assumption that you didn’t recognize my summons.”

 

The fingers that had so gently woven themselves throughout her damp curls suddenly tightened, tugging her head back. Sharp pain jolted through Mallory’s skull and seemed to radiate down her neck, but Michael ignored her gasp, pulling until her head rested against the side of the tub and she had no choice but to look up at him. The tension eased, and she blinked away her shock and rage to take in the sight of him kneeling behind her, his face hovering above hers.

 

“We made a deal, Mallory,” he said darkly. “I gave you good terms. You will uphold them.”

 

She swallowed hard. Scared wasn’t the right word—she had never really feared him and wouldn’t start just because he’d pulled her hair like a boy in a schoolyard. Uneasy was a bit better; he’d always made her uneasy. She didn’t think he knew how to put anyone at ease, let alone the woman who’d killed his mortal form and taken up residence in his home. But there was something new between them. She was... off balance with him. She felt the weight of what they’d done the night before so acutely it was if it had settled on her chest, and the sense that Michael knew something crucial about her that she did not yet know herself was like a length of iron chains dragging from her wrist.

 

“Fine,” she muttered with what she hoped sounded like indifference. She stood straight up out of the bath just to prove how unbothered she was, telling herself he’d clearly spent weeks spying on her and any shyness was misplaced but instantly regretting the move nonetheless. His eyes moved down her bare back like scores from burning hot claws. Mallory summoned a towel with a trembling hand, but the shield of linen to hide her flesh didn’t soothe her.

 

She was barely out of the steaming bath when she felt the sudden presence of silk on her reddened skin. Her eyes flew to the mirror, catching her fully-dressed reflection and Michael’s smirk beside it. He’d decked her out in red and black, the cool fabric draping scandalously low across her breasts. Her hair sported one of her usual floral crowns, but this one was done up with rubies and black pearls to match the circlet he wore. The pair of them looked ready for some kind of coronation.

 

Or some kind of wedding.

 

Mallory shot him a halfhearted glare as she put her hand in his, scoffing when she noticed even her nails had been done up in black, filed to chic little claws.

 

“Did you spend all day imagining the details of this outfit?,” she asked, unable to mask her exasperation with the teasing lilt she intended. She’d transfigured herself into changes in appearance on many occasions, and there was always some little detail she forgot to hold in her mind when the moment came. She’d certainly never wound up with a matching manicure and, from what she could tell, a full set of lingerie beneath.

 

“I spent all year imagining it,” he said without a hint of sarcasm.

 

Mallory blinked slowly, unsure how to handle his intensity. In her next breath she was seated beside him at the sumptuous banquet table, a glass of blood-red wine already in her hand.

 

“Won’t you take just a sip for me, Mallory?”

 

She looked down into the dark liquid, then back up at the fair-haired demon child she’d pledged to spend eternity with. She thought of her childhood days in Sunday School, remembering how she’d marveled at Eve’s foolishness in falling for the serpent’s tricks. Now she understood. Eve hadn’t _fallen_ for a damn thing. She’d wanted what the devil offered her.

 

Who wouldn’t want the knowledge of good and evil when it hovered within their reach?

 

She raised the goblet to her lips and drank deep.

 


End file.
